


Hell on Earth

by SalsedinePicta, Thyra279



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, BEAUTIFUL art SERIOUSLY, Baroque, Beelzebub comes to Earth, Bits of torture mentioned but nothing graphic, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Happy Ending, Historical, Mentions of pregnancy (Artemisia), Oh and there's a happy ending for the world too, Painting, She/Her Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), When on Earth and viewed by humans in the 1600s, kind of, well it's beelzebub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29386599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalsedinePicta/pseuds/SalsedinePicta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279
Summary: Evil in general does not sleep, and therefore doesn't see why anyone else should. Evil does get bored, however, particularly during a century as dull and unadventurous as the one the humans called the Seventeenth.Sometimes even the Prince of Hell needs a break, and in 1618, after a little guidance from a certain Earth-bound demon, Beelzebub decides to break Florence.They end up sitting for a Artemisia Gentileschi, first ever female painter at the Accademia del Disegno. She is tough, brave and terrified, and determined to capture Beelzebub's likenezz whatever it takes.Written for Do It With Style's Reverse Big Bang!“Men in general judge more by the sense of sight than by the sense of touch, because everyone can see but few can test by feeling. Everyone sees what you seem to be, few know what you really are; and those few do not dare take a stand against the general opinion.”- Machiavelli
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Artemisia Gentileschi, Beelzebub & Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Aziraphale, implied, or - Relationship
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	Hell on Earth

**Author's Note:**

> This gorgeous art that inspired this fic has been created by the hugely talented and really lovely Salsedine. It has been such a joy to see her painting come alive (and be gifted with the sketch too!). I love her unique, confident, charismatic style a lot, and there is no doubt that Salsedine knows her art history. :D <3
> 
> You can find her art on Tumblr and on Instagram \- there's a lot more beautiful, soulful art over there and loads more demons too.
> 
> This piece at the end of the fic was inspired by Gentileschi's "Judith and her maidservant" for the vibe and "Danae" for the palette.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

> **“Men in general judge more by the sense of sight than by the sense of touch, because everyone can see but few can test by feeling. Everyone sees what you seem to be, few know what you really are; and those few do not dare take a stand against the general opinion.”**
> 
> **Niccoló Machiavelli,** **The Prince**

Florence, 1618

It was almost devastatingly quiet in the room. Suffocating. Not with the heavy sweetness from the jasmine which had taken over the courtyard outside, nor with the stench of the city that usually overpowered even that in the sweltering heat of the late summer. No, the atelier tonight was heavy with something much less palpable and much more invasive, something settled in the shadows that now held the room, there, just out of touch, watching her soundlessly from the deepest, darkest corners of her soul, waiting, biding its time.

Just one shallow breath and a single pencil stood in the way of total silence.

The grubby pencil did the best it could, scraping frantically across the fine paper in little jolted lines to appease its mistress's every whim. It had been doing so for hours now, all day long, skipping across the page as the sunlight turned mellow and migrated across the paper, as it finally died and left the fickle flames of a dozen candles flickering across the room in its wake. Dancing about as if the paper below it was on fire.

There were many little whims here, in the final frenzied minutes of the birthing of another sketch, before she deemed it good enough, hundreds of tiny little lines to add depth, have the dip below her subject's mouth step back and leave her bottom lip the limelight, to add another extra bit of wildness to the hair.

Then suddenly, she forced the little pencil to a halt and Silence conquered the room.

Artemisia Gentileschi stood up immediately, grabbed the paper, and the stubby little pencil hit the table, then the floor, rolling into the dusty ether with a final clattering swansong.

" _Puo muoversi se lo desidera, Signora_."

Her subject didn't heed her invitation, didn't move a single muscle, but Artemisia wasn't looking now, had her back turned and was halfway to the door, throwing it open with a great, deep sigh in order to get the most out of the next big gulp of air she took.

She inhaled both the jasmine and all the sins of the city this time round, all the liveliness of earth here, in her hard-earned courtyard.

She stayed out there much longer than she usually did upon completion of a sketch, let the minutes tick by as she braced herself for the imperfections in her perfect sketch that she knew would show up as soon as she looked at it again, freed from it, seeing it with fresh eyes.

They always did.

Artemisia was pleasantly surprised, therefore, to discover a little while later under the flicker of a candle that it really _was_ very lovely – very lovely indeed for a preparatory sketch. She held it up, couldn't quite keep the smile off her face as she took it around the room, examined it further by another candle.

Then she remembered that she really ought to show it to her subject. Wondered vaguely where they'd gone in the devastating quiet of the room, eyes clinging to the lines of the mouth, the soulful expression in the eyes. She'd gone to get some water, perhaps.

She finally peeled her eyes away from her sketch.

She was right there.

Her subject was sitting in the exact same spot she'd been sitting in all day, didn't seem to have moved at all. Was staring straight ahead, at the exact same point of nothing she'd been staring at for the past for hours at least.

" _É finito_ ." There was no reaction at all. "… _Signora_?"

Not so much as a trace of a smile met her, and Artemisia felt her own falter even as she walked forwards, felt the familiar nervous excitement she always did showing her subjects their own likeness, her interpretation of them, the fruit of a long day's silent, focused collaboration.

She wasn't one for fanfare or for showing off – not really. So she only allowed herself a new go at a smile and a simple turning over of the paper, revealing the sketch in her hands.

Two cold, blue eyes finally moved from the point of nothing they'd been observing all day to the paper.

They didn't blink.

"No."

Artemisia nearly dropped the sketch in surprise. Her subject looked back at the nothing again, entirely unmoved.

" _Ma questo é_ -"

" _Ricominczzia. Adesso_."

" _Mi scusi, vuole che inizi-_ "

" _Szzzi._ "

" _Ma Signora, è molto tardi_ …"

Then her subject finally lifted those two cold blue eyes and looked into Artemia's brown ones, entirely expressionless, unblinking. And somewhere in her deepest, darkest core, just south of where the scientists and churchmen thought the soul must be, Artemisia felt something faint and ancient, an instinct screaming at her, telling her to run.

" _I_ said _, szzztart over_."

She felt the blood pump in her veins, warm and vital, full of anger and spite and burning, churning injustice.

Somewhere in there was a little troubling pride too, at those words. It wasn't a rejection of her skill, really, was it? If anything, it was a statement of trust that she could do even better.

Artemisia had gotten very good over the years at making the best of bad situations. She was a survivor, a lion amongst men, a genius who'd had to fight her way to recognition. Yes, she would say it, think it.

God knew she deserved it.

Artemisia had always liked a challenge, had never gotten anywhere by giving up and running for the hills. Had become the first – the only – woman to be accepted into Florence's _Accademia di Arte del Disegno_ through hard work, through pain, sweat and tears, through much bigger humiliations than this.

And she had never, in her more than 40 years on earth, had as strange, as thrilling a subject as this.

Well, what was she to do other than bow her head and curtsy with an "of course, Mia Signora".

Beelzebub watched the artist's pleasure turn to fury with warm, flushing glee. " _Bene_."

* * *

> **Men sooner forget the death of their father than the loss of their patrimony.**
> 
> **Machiavelli,** **The Prince**

Hell, late

Evil in general does not sleep, and therefore doesn't see why anyone else should.

Evil does get bored, however, particularly during a century as dull and unadventurous as the one the humans these days call the seventeenth.

Beelzebub descended from their throne with a sigh to do the rounds, plodding along the always-flooded floor to the usual screams of tortured souls on their way to the meeting rooms. Damp and humid, lost souls everywhere, milling about in an eternal quest for something to do.

At the end of the neverending day, there was really only so much going on in Hell when it wasn't anything exciting like wartime or plaguetime or it had been a while since any of the bigger catastrophes on _earth_. Even War was getting lazzzy.

It had been a while since the last proper outbreak of anything serious, and time had been taken up with the dreadfully boring business of _overseeing_. Overzeeing meetings with underlings. Overzzeeing meetings with those who would be equals. Overzzzeeing the bouts of torture that had picked up since Hell's demons had last had enough to do in the glorious fourteenth century.

Overseeing irritating briefs from that rotating ball of shit called the _earth_. Feigning enthusiasm for whatever new idiotic plans Hell's agents up there came up with.

Beelzebub was seldom impressed theze dayzzzz. They'd been down here, taking care of things with Dagon in this damp and warm and humid, dark and moggy, hellhole of a – well. Satan barely took an interest anymore, had started withdrawing the moment the Uprising fell. Beelzebub had seen it coming from a mile off, had predicted Lucifer's sulking and slow withdrawal circle by circle into the hole he so rarely left these days.

They'd seen it coming. Had made sure to stand by his side, to pat him on his charred back and let him.

His absence left a vacuum. Zzzomeone had to fill it.

They'd fallen, the lot of them. Might as well make the worst of it, take what was right there.

It had taken millennia, millions of years and no years at all. Time had never mattered much here, not to anyone except for Dagon anyway. They'd fought battle after battle to get to where They were, fought off challengers and contenders and thoze who would make peace.

Thezzze days, no one doubted who was really in charge of Hell.

Beelzebub had fought, fought tooth and claw, had pushed and burnt and shoved Their way to respect and equilibrium. Stability. Surrounded Themself with weak yes-men and overpowered the other princes and formed an alliance with Dagon once They were really sure that Dagon really wanted nothing more than to be in control of their surroundings. Reliability. Predictability.

Sometimezzz Beelzebub suspected that Dagon wasn't the only one.

They'd sniffed out everyone's motivations, had those who wanted power for themselves removed. The demons who wanted nothing more than to hurt and torture had been easy to place.

The ones who'd sought stability, reliability, stability, the ones like Dagon who craved method in the madness had found their place too. Beelzebub knew they would never revolt; that they'd had more than enough of fighting, that they would never dare to go up against Them.

The really clever ones – the ones who wiled and fled and slithered their way out of trouble – had been the hardest ones to place. The unpredictable ones.

Beelzebub had found a solution in the end.

They'd waited and watched, and the ones who wanted to riot eventually found a way to. They picked them off one by one, returned them to an eternity in the boiling sulphur if They didn't end them completely.

There'd been few left over, but They'd got to know them, had learnt their motivations over time.

They wanted to be left alone.

So Beelzebub had sent them to Earth when it was made, sent them off with just enough of a hold of them to remind them who they belonged to.

* * *

> **“The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler is to look at the men he has around him.”**
> 
> **Machiavelli,** **The Prince**

London, 1617

They both liked the seventeenth century a lot, had had very little official business that wasn't easily handled through the Agreement. It left lots of time for more casual meetings, for wine-spurred discussions and spirited philosophical discourse just like this one, hidden away in the spice shop Crowley had set up in England's capital as a front for trading much more sinister goods.

Good like this new glass-bottled port stuff from Iberia. Aziraphale liked it a _lot_ , and Crowley liked how the wine warmed the angel up, made him much more flexible in thought and speech and willing to stray deliciously close to the boundaries of acceptable thinking, how it opened up those darker places in his mind that the angel usually kept to himself here in the relative safety of his shop.

"Ah but he wasn't that bad, really," Crowley prodded, pouring each of them another. "Or – not bad-bad, you know what I mean. _You_ liked him. I know you did."

"Mmmh. It matters. It matters not in the end, your side won that particular battle, I capit. Capitulated that point several- several millennia ago. Doesn't change that what he did was simply unforget- unforgivable."

"Ah but if it's part of the great plan, written in the- prophesied in those, what's-their-faces, those _books_ that you like so much. Humanity's saviour n'all of that. He _had_ to be betrayed for that to happen at all. Someone had to _do_ the betraying. It was his job. He was simply doing what he was supposed to, his _duty_ – you're big on that these days – just like you'n'me. 'n it was always meant to be him, you know that as well as me, 'ziraphale, you were there too."

"Oh don't remind me, it was terrible, such a terrible time, you know I didn't _like_ it, any of it, but it was part of the Great Plan, the betrayal, simply ine-"

" _Oh piss right off,_ don't-"

"All'm'saying is that while it was written. Yes. Written that he _would_ , that it had to happen, it was still his free choice with the- the kissing and the coins, it had to be or that would be _terrible_ , it was both, you see- at least. At least that's how it was explained to me." That little worry line that never quite disappeared bore into the angel's forehead with renewed vigour. "I admit I'm a little fuzzy on the details at thi-"

**_Pain._ **

Searing, tearing pain split Crowley's eyes apart, tore the bones that barely held it together on a good day from each other, each sinew screaming with the announcement he felt through his body, red-hot and blistering white, hellfire scorching him, the smell of boiling sulphur-

It was all in his head, he knew it was, knew what this was, what was coming, felt the invasion of his innermost self and it was- it was-

It was-

Everything whirled.

" _Crowley are you-_ "

" _GET OUT. LEAVE. NOW, AZI- GO!_ "

There was a snap and a pop, a flash of hymns and light and then Crowley was alone, alone for all of one second before the pain returned, announced the arrival of Someone he hadn't seen on Earth for millennia, Someone he'd hoped, naively, like a child, never to see on Earth again.

A deep, human breath to steady the corporation, he found it helped with his nerves these days too, with every part of him really, another breath and up he got, and he was smiling and his silly heart galloped wildly in his throat until he told it to stop and he had this, he knew how to handle this, and they hadn't been discovered and it was all alright and he was bowing and giving the biggest, widest grin and his customary

"Lord Beelzebub. What an honour."

Three unpupilled, unirised dark red fuzzy flies' eyes stared at him from the part-human corporation a good two feet below.

They terrified him, always had. Crowley was clever enough, had enough wits about him to know that the tiny corporation They favoured these days belied the presence behind it. He never let himself forget all the things they had done right from the First Time, never let himself forget to feel the unease that Lucifer's Left Hand brought with Them wherever They went.

He'd never dared any schemes against Them, never attempted his usual tricks with Beelzebub, lied just the bare minimum to get away with the big secret that he must not think about while They were staring at him, while those dead eyes bore into the place where his soul ought to be.

They didn't like each other, not that anyone really liked anyone in Hell. But Crowley knew who he was dealing with, and Beelzebub couldn't pin him for his exemplary job performance. They thought him capable, he knew, and therefore useful. For as long as it lasted.

The pain subsided, giving way to dread and unease. It wasn't new or unexpected, just a hook in the pit of his stomach lurching his insides this way or that with every second passing. Easily manageable.

Crowley sniffed and smiled again, wider.

A few thin, jagged scraping togethers of six long thin black legs which snapped into nonexistence in favour of arms and legs and his boss's monotone, fuzzy, booming human voice.

"I require your assistanzzze." Beelzebub's eyes strayed to the till and for one terrifying, life-sucking second, Crowley thought the game was up.

"Why two cupzzz?"

"Oh, erh, it's the custom these days. You know how it is up here, the humans and their rituals. This one's, this one's Catholic. One cup for me and one for the… Holy Spirit."

The Prince of Hell returned Their eyes to him, and the dull, screaming dread settled in again.

"…I spat in it of course."

Beelzebub sighed. "Demon Crawly. The Demon Dantalion has failed in their task to bring the Count of Valtellina's daughter on to our zzzide in time for her wedding to the Duke of Florence."

"'m sorry to hear it. Dantalion's usually-"

"The Demon Dantalion is none of your business.zzz. They will be out of commission for eons. They are being roasted for their mistakezzz."

"…Right. Goo- erh. Sounds… fair. So the girl is already married, then?"

"No."

"Oh?"

"They died."

"Ah. The Plague?"

"Yezzz. A small outbreak."

"Pity."

"Yezzz, we were hoping for something to occupy the lesser demons. New lost soulszz from that part of Earth are down to a trickle."

Crowley gave a performative sad little shake of the head.

"But up here, we must still infiltrate Italy. It izzz stagnating, nothing has upset the nation states there since Wenice-"

"Venice-"

"Venice wazzz excommunicated a decade ago."

"Right. Hell want me to go back there? Impersonate the girl, tempt the husband to our side, that sort of thing? My Italian's a bit rusty and it's been a while since I-"

"No. I will."

"You'll – what?"

"I will go."

"Why?"

"Because I. Szay. Szzo."

"Of course – only, why would Your Lordship occupy yourself with such menial matters?"

"Change of szzzcenery."

Crowley eyed the wine cups on the table.

"But- but Lord Beelzebub, Your Lowness, not to float my own boat, but it takes quite a lot of prep, and Your Lordship has been gone for so long that there's a lot to catch up on..."

Beelzebub stared at him. He felt himself wilting with every passing second.

"You'd better bring me up to szzzpeed then."

* * *

> **It is better to act and repent than not to act and regret.**
> 
> **Machiavelli,** **The Prince**

Florence, August 1618

Artemisia had always preferred living bodies. All the spirit, the energy of the individual lay so crucially ingrained within the physical form of her subjects that it was an entirely different exercise to depict the dead. She'd always been praised for how human her paintings were, dramatic, yes, but honest, full of character and vivacity.

But when living subjects were scarce and physicians frowned at a pregnant woman turning up to their anatomy lessons, she was left with little choice.

Luckily, she'd been in Florence long enough by now to establish herself, to get a foot in the door of the seedy world of undertakers and hangmen, to the physicians and barbers who could give her an arm and a leg – in exchange for heavy payment, of course.

She was here for a hand today, promised to her by the executioner at the Piazza della Signoria.

The square was full today, she noticed, and kept back, well away from the splash zone though her dress was already stained in all the colours of the rainbow, her sleeves black with the lead from the pencil she'd barely remembered to put down before hurrying over here.

That's when she noticed her.

She thought it was a young girl at first, in her expensive foreign dress, black and white but not at all in the simple godly fashions of the north. It was opulent, this outfit; sharp and hard and bold in a way that ought to have clashed with her slight frame and soft features.

And yet it didn't.

Artemisia had pulled out her emergency pad and pencil before she even knew it, watching the lady from a distance. It took her a moment to really notice her face, the unusual details of it, the cold blue eyes and the sores and the confident far-away expression.

It took her another long moment to notice that while everyone else on the square moved in agitation and excitement as the condemned and executioner took their places on the raised platform, while every man, woman and child yelled or sobbed or wafted themselves in the sweet, warmly decaying summer air, this woman moved not an inch. Not a single inch as she calmly observed the execution, as the crowd broke into a frenzy around her. In fact, if Artemisia hadn't been studying her intently, she would never have noticed the very faint smile that appeared on her lip as the crowd grew quiet in the aftermath, as the blood flowed and filled the cracks between the cobbled stones.

There seemed to be more than usual, Artemisia noted absentmindedly, lost in her sketches.

Then suddenly, the lady was right beside her.

"Why do you szzztare at me?"

Artemisia gave a quick bow. "Apologies, my lady. Only, I found you fascinating."

"Humans often think szzo."

Her accent was foreign, strange, Swiss perhaps. Italian clearly was not her first language, though she spoke it confidently.

"Have you ever been drawn, Mia Signora?"

"It has been many, many years since humanzzz last depicted me."

The lady looked at her.

Perhaps she was from much further north; she'd heard about cold peoples from frozen lands far away. Never realised that they brought their cold with them; that it settles in you, into every hidden part of you.

Two cold, blue eyes bore into her. "Do you know who I am?"

Artemisia tried to work it out, went through the catalogue of Italy's nobility and rich tradesmen who had sat for her or sponsored her or whom she'd tried to convince to patronise despite the _misfortune_ of her gender. She hated them all and admired them too, wanted to be revered by them and thought herself much better than them.

Eventually, she'd exhausted all the branches of the Medicis and the Sforzas and every last little dusty corner of her mind. She had to concede; had no idea who this woman was, how she fit into the systems.

She was just about to apologise and grovel when she took in her subject – much shorter than her, fragile-looking almost, yet so confident, so still, so unsettlingly in control of herself and her surroundings.

It spurred something in her.

She stood a little taller, a little straighter, lifted her chin and took a deep breath.

"I do not, Signora. Do you know who _I_ am?"

* * *

Hell, late, and London, very early in the morning

Everything in Hell was running unsmoothly and exactly according to plan, both Beelzebub's own and _the_ Plan, not that They liked to think too much about it outside of Dagon's unmotivational speeches to the lesser demons.

Everyone knew their place and Beelzebub knew exactly what to expect of everyone down under, which usually wasn't much.

There had barely been a single uprising to quench for centuriezzz.

It was dull as fucking anything. And Beelzebub was curious. Curious to zee what would happen.

So when the demon Dantalion fucked up, it was the perfect opportunity to get away for a bit.

Beelzebub took to dropping in on Crawly at night in his stupid dark little shop whenever the hot, damp, drooling crowds of Hell became too much (They never noticed the wine cup ritual on dizzzplay again).

He'd talked of classes and city states and fashion, of pronouns and papalism and all the other silly systems these soft, weak humans used in desperate attempts at creating individuality and meaning and a sense of purpose during their short little lives.

Beelzebub got no closer to seeing what exactly it was about the earth vermin that their Creator had liked so much; what made them so special, special enough that God would kick out most of their very first creation for wanting to know what was so special about these humans.

Eventually, Crawly moved on to talk about books and misprinted bibles and creativity, mechanics, the finer things on Earth and Beelzebub decided They had had enough of the sharp, perfumed stench of spices and herbs.

Crawly had snapped his fingers without another word and they'd been there, in Italy.

(Tuscany, July 1618)

In the morning. Outside.

Beelzebub hadn't seen the sun since time immemorial.

For the first long, long flash, everything was white, reminded Them of the. Of _them_ , of _up there._

Everything was bright, horrid and open and painfully, painfully bright. They'd forgotten just how strong the sun was, how furiously it burnt one's many beady eyes and scorched the skin of the human corporation that hadn't seen daylight for millennia.

It took Beelzebub a long moment to remember how to blink.

Humans. Dozens, hundreds of humans milled about around Them, and it reminded Them of home, but things were dry, so dry and cold and _blinding_ up here in the light.

By the time Beelzebub had got a handle on Their many eyes, the humans had stopped to stare.

They would never have dared to do so below.

Beelzebub looked right back at them, stared Their most terrifying stare.

It worked. Of course it worked. They fled like sheep, tripped over themselves to get away as the clouds pulled in and a great storm broke in seconds and lightning fell, rained on the humans, drowned out their screams as they tripped over each other and fought to get away.

A long thin human-like finger poked Their arm. "Erh, Lord Beelzebub, any chance I could give You a bit of friendly ad-"

 _Flee,_ They thought, all eyes locked on the humans. _Flee like the dirty vermin cowards you are._ Blood rose from the soil, wilted the weeds that had cracked through the cobbled market square.

The blasted serpent sniffed beside Them. "You see, Oh Great Lord, these days humans don't really react that well to all this doom and gloom stuff. It's more… one has to blend in a bit these days, make an effort. Speak a human language, that kind of thing. This Old Testament stuff isn't really, 's just not that effective round these parts any more. _Believe me_ , I've tried, 'course I have. Short term gains, long term pains, believe You me." He popped his lips. "And not the good kind of pain, let me tell You."

He snapped his fingers and they found themselves in a village in the next valley over. It was much more shadowy, cool and moist with rain, green hills all around.

"Why don't You, erh, give it another go, and… you know." Crawly shifted from one foot to the other. "Try and talk to one of them."

Beelzebub gave him a look that told him exactly what They thought of him but found Themself walking up to a human at a market stall anyway. They recognised onions from the last time They were up here. Always liked their smell.

Crawly looked down at Them, nodded encouragingly with his arms behind his back, shifting his weight again. A small bead of sweat sneaked its way down his forehead, fled into the red sideburn by his snake tattoo.

" _Try out a greeting, Lord_ ," he muttered in lowly Demonic, nodding at the vendor.

Beelzebub huffed but turned towards the human nonetheless, cleared Their scratchy little throat, unused since 1500 BC.

" **𐎌 𐎚 𐎊 𐎋 𐎍 𐎁 𐎚 𐎄𐎎**."[1]

The human stared.

Crawly bowed low enough for his lace ruff to flop over on to the back of the head. "Ah, easy mistake to make. I'm afraid Ugaritic went out of fashion a little while ago, humans ‘round these parts tend to go for Italian, French. German at a push. Easy mistake to make; could happen to anyone," he breezed, gave a little bow. "You'll pick it up in no time. 'n if I may be so bold, Your Malevolence, I'd cut down on the flies. And the eyes. Gotta blend in, you see. And might I suggest a gender? They're all the rage round these parts these days."

* * *

> **I hold strongly to this: that it is better to be impetuous than circumspect; because fortune is a woman and if she is to be submissive it is necessary to beat and coerce her.**
> 
> **Machiavelli,** **The Prince**

Florence, August 1618

The lady had been right, Artemisia admitted begrudgingly and only to herself as she mixed her paints for the first time in weeks, finally happy with her preparatory sketch. Artemisia's first attempt had been much too soft, much too conventional for a subject as interesting, as terrifying as this lady.

The painter had offered conversation early on to no response.

She didn't mind at all, content to paint and watch and correct in silence, had a tendency to fall deep into a world of her own at a particularly dark dent or soft material, as she added just the right highlight to a cheek or subtly corrected a posture with just a few elegant little strokes of her brush.

* * *

Florence, September 1618

Sometimes, despite everything, however, conversation breaks out.

"It is a very nice dress you have there. It captivated me when I first saw you, Mia Signora."

"I didn't dreszzz myself."

"No, of course not. But it suits you very well."

"Then why did you drape me in this red monstrozzzity?"

"It adds texture, Signora. Texture and luxury and drama."

"I do not care about luxury. Or drama."

"Other people do."

"Not at the end. At the end, they all beg for all the things they take for granted. And time."

"I would be happy to be remembered. Recognised."

Her subject stared at her. "Everything is forgotten eventually."

"Sometimes they're rediscovered."

Florence, October 1618

"Do you think it looks like you yet, My Lady? I think it does. I think this is a masterpiece, the best thing I have made for years."

"I do not know."

"It's always difficult to tell, to see. One moment, let me find you a mirror."

"Why?"

"So that – so that you may see yourself. Compare."

"No."

"Then why did you commission me to paint your likeness, Mia Signora?"

"I hear it iszzz convention to have onezzzelf depicted before big events. I am to be married to the Duke."

"So I hear. Congratulations."

Artemisia waited for a reply as she dabbed at the sleeve, lightening it, standing up to feed her own vitality, the force of her spirit to the figure in the painting. It took and took, whatever she did it wanted more, more of her, a little more precise here, a little less defined there.

She had repositioned the entire right arm by the time she gave up on getting an answer. "The sword was an excellent touch. It suits you. Makes you look very strong. Powerful."

"I am."

"I have no doubt."

For the first time since that fateful day on the market square, she saw a sliver of a smile on her subject's lip. It was much worse now than then, had seemed almost dreamy, sweet.

She hadn't understood, then.

"Do you think I look weak without the weapon?"

Artemisia took her time to answer, refused to acknowledge the chill that had settled in her bones this year, the thumping, churning fear that never quite left her these days. "You are very small."

"I wasn't alwayszzz. I chose to be."

"But you are not weak. I learnt long ago that what one looks like has little bearing on who one is. It is why so many of my colleagues are so bad at depicting women. They want to see us as frail. Vulnerable. Powerless."

She added a stray tuft of hair to the left of her subject's face. "And we can be. Just like men. But we are individuals, all of us, good and bad and capable of being just as terrible too. And yet, most of them insist on depicting us all the same. It is the downfall of most of my colleagues. They do not see it; they do not study their women models in the way they do the men; do not dare to depict them as they are, warts and all. I do, you see, I put in the blood, the sweat and the tears, I dare to depict what I see in front of me – the good, of course." She glanced at her subject. "The bad too. I have learnt not to shy away from the bad, Duchess, the evil and dark and unsettling."

"I am not a Duchess either."

"You will be soon."

"I am a Prince."

"And I am the best artist in Italy, and yet no one will admit it. It is the curse of my gender. I support my husband, you know. Do well enough to provide for the both of us. Though he insists he is my agent."

"If he does nothing for you, then why do you sssztay with him?"

"Isn't that the same with everyone?" She put down her brush, picked up a much deeper, darker red. "…He took me in, once, when I had nowhere else to turn. Though he has done nothing else since then."

"Safety, then? Predictability? You are juszzzt the same as everyone else."

"Not safety, no. He lets me do what I want. At least, he doesn't stop me."

"Power, then. Whatever little people can have of it. That I do understand."

Florence, November 1618

The leaves fell off the trees that year much faster than they usually did, the skies turned grey and the fields surrounding Florence withered and died before more than the bare necessities could be harvested.

Artemisia could barely reach her brushes when she sat down these days. She'd had plenty of children, of course, none of them this bothersome in their pregnancy.

Luckily, she much preferred standing while she worked.

She hadn't eaten for weeks, felt unusually dizzy by lunchtime already. Her dress swooped out around her stomach. Everywhere else it sagged by now.

"How are you finding life with your new husband, Sua Eccellenza?"

"I've barely zzzeen him. Never alone."

"…Sometimes that is for the best."

"I think he fearszzz me."

Artemisia laughed for the first time in weeks and looked up into those cold, dead eyes that had stared unblinkingly at her all day and returned immediately to her canvas.

"I don't fear you, you know," Artemisia mumbled out of stubbornness or kindness, she wasn't sure. "I think that somewhere inside you, you are good."

Nothing more was said that day. Artemisia spent the day removing her subject's irises, then putting them back in, looking as far away and to the left of the viewer as possible.

Little did she know that her subject spent the afternoon cursing the painting.

Florence, December 1618

"I am sorry that your husband passed away so soon."

She received no reply as expected, settled in to warm the background a little more. Finishing touches, she was almost there, had almost done it, had almost completed the greatest work of her life; a masterpiece of perseverance and will, of courage and stubbornness and hard, physical labour; had managed before the birth of the child who barely stopped kicking and pushing for life these days.

"There is a rumour…"

"Yeszzz?"

"…A rumour that you died. That the Plague took you on the way down to Florence. Kinder people say you survived it and gave it to him. Is that how you got the marks?"

"He betrayed me. Waszzz going to annul the marriage."

Artemisia daren't say a word.

"I thought I knew him. I thought he was a weak, szzzilly little man who would easzzzily do my bidding."

"I told you. People are all unique, we have our own motives and dreams and desires. Some of us even have morals." Artemisia signed the painting, sat back to correct a highlight, never quite satisfied though she knew this was a masterpiece.

Pity no one would ever see it. "Humans are individuals, you see. We create and make stupid decisions and good decisions, and they are just as varied and unpredictable as each of us are. I doubt you will ever fully understand; you do not belong here."

She got caught up in one of the hands, fought for half an hour to make the little finger just right.

When she looked back up, her subject was gone.

She hoped very much she would never see her again. 

* * *

> **Of mankind we may say in general they are fickle, hypocritical, and greedy of gain.**
> 
> **Machiavelli,** **The Prince**

Hell and Earth, that same night

Hell was warm and damp and musky, thick with the sweet stench of decay and the fumes from a million lost souls. Everything was exactly as when They left, Dagon had made sure of it, and even in Their time away, no one had dared to challenge Them.

Everything was as it should be. Everyone knew their place. Beelzebub settled on Their throne again, ready for another couple of millennia, ready to rule with a heavy hand until whenever the End Times, when they would rise again and bring order and stability to the chaos and deceit that reigned in all the other kingdoms.

They forgot all about Earth again, all about painting and fashions and sunshine, didn't want to remember. Kept hold only of the betrayals, the deceit. The slipperiness of humans, the disgrace of their outspokenness.

Forgot everything about the curse they had left behind.

Artemisia Gentileschi did not. She never showed the painting to a single person, left it stacked away in the cellars of one of the manor house of a patron she painted soon after, screeching healthy infant left at home with its older siblings so that she could feed the family - and pursue her fame. She did gain some fame and recognition in her lifetime. She left her husband eventually and made it all the way to England and back again, lived a long and productive life.

She was forgotten after her death, neatly tucked away in history books in favour of all her male colleagues.

These days, she is getting a revival, and several exhibitions have been planned to show off her work. Many art historians and experts now hail her as one of the most talented Baroque painters of them all. 

She is particularly lauded for her skill in portraying all her subjects as strong, real individuals in bold and dynamic compositions, no matter their gender.[2]

No one has ever found her painting of the Prince of Darkness. But anyone who has ever neared the cellar of one particular old mansion in Florence has been cursed with the very worst thing the Lord of the Flies could ever fathom: A long and healthy life on this mad, unpredictable, vibrant shitball we call Earth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

[1] "Drink blood bitch."

[2] Most of this is true. We strongly recommend you go and read about her (tw: sexual abuse); she had a fascinating life and career, for better and worse. She went through trials and tribulations and managed to make it even so in what was very much a man’s world at the time. She has long been remembered primarily for her rape and the fact that it actually went as far as a trial. Today, she is finally being remembered for her huge talent and the very impressive achievement that she really did become the first woman to become a member of the Accademia di Arte del Disegno.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. This is the first time I've strayed (well mostly) from A/C-centred fic (have to say it was fun to be mean to Crowley for a bit...), and it was very cool to try out a very different kind of Good Omens story!
> 
> This has been such a fun experience and I am very, very happy to have got to work with Salsedine! Please do check out her other art on Tumblr and on Instagram and give her all the love that she deserves!
> 
> Thanks to Samthony for betaing!


End file.
